


Son of a Lost Country

by rivlee



Category: Spartacus Series (TV), Spartacus: Blood and Sand, Spartacus: Vengeance, Spartacus: War of the Damned
Genre: Angst, Episode Related, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Prompt Fill, Spartacus Reverse Big Bang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-27
Updated: 2013-09-27
Packaged: 2017-12-27 18:53:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/982398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rivlee/pseuds/rivlee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not all brothers come from blood. A reflection on the bonds of friendship between Agron and Spartacus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Son of a Lost Country

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CanadianSuperhero](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=CanadianSuperhero).



> **Warnings:** Minor Character Death. Mentions of Agron’s crucifixion. This story contains a character’s thoughts on their body betraying them due to injury/illness, so please, please avoid this fic if that is a possible trigger. 
> 
> **Notes:** Based off the amazing mix by CanadianSuperHero, which you can see [here](http://sparty-reverse.livejournal.com/3056.html) as prompt 26. Special thanks to ciel_vert/chewwbecca who was kind enough to beta this for me. Any remaining mistakes are my own. This fic can be read as a companion piece to _A Stoic Mind and a Bleeding Heart_. There are lines from _Spartacus: Blood & Sand_, episode 13 and _Spartacus: War of the Damned_ , episode 9 quoted below. The title is taken from Delta Rae’s _Is There Anybody Out There_.

Agron was a respected man of the village now, even with body grown worn by age and memories. Nasir still looked young for their years, and was still able to plough a field without little complaint by the end of the day. Agron had become the keeper of their home and history as he found his weary bones unable to endure standing for long in the cold wind of the winter months. 

Their home was often frequented by others; a place to rest as required. Their kindness allowed them to accrue favors. With no children of their own to watch over them as life grew dimmer, it would be those favors that sustained them. It wasn’t uncommon for Agron to spend his days entertaining guests now that his hands shook again under too much strain. All the years it took him to heal and now he had become less than even a tiller a land. Unlike in his youth, he had no resentment or anger towards his current state. He quite enjoyed sharing the good memories of the past with those willing to listen. 

“Is it true?” an inquisitive voice asked from the doorway. It belonged to Aella, Sibyl’s granddaughter, who brimmed over with the stubborn determination of youth and a lack of propriety that never failed to amuse Agron. 

“Is what true?” Agron asked. “Close that door before you kill the fire.”

She didn’t waver at the sound of his tone, did as she was told without argument, and marched over to him once she was done. “Is it true you fought with Spartacus? _The_ Spartacus?”

Agron grinned at her words, ever proud of his old leader. “He was not born with such a name, and only died with it under protest.” He nodded slowly as he cupped her shoulder. “He was a brother to me, through very dark days.” Her eyes lit with that curious mischief Agron still associated with Duro. “Do you like stories?” he asked.

Aella nodded. “Nasir says I should be keeper of them.”

Agron lifted a gnarled hand to his mouth to hide his soft smile. “Then we shall obey him. I will tell you of my tale, though I warn that it is dark and frightening.”

She tilted her chin up, jaw set. “I am not afraid.”

“No, you are not,” he agreed. “And it is a gift that you have grown up so.” 

*******************

Duro had fallen to sleep, face still bruised and bleeding from his fight earlier. What he’d lost in sight, he’d made up in respect. Agron found himself overwhelmed by the pride for the man he still thought of as a boy, running along the rocks of the riverside as fast as he could. Duro never showed caution when he should, and quite enjoyed taunting danger if given the chance. It was a fool’s bravery, but the only reason they both still breathed. Agron was grateful for that, even if their deaths were but delayed for a time. He still felt the long stretch of years before them, and he would not give them up without a fierce fight. 

Agron turned his eyes to the path through their cells as their Champion walked by. He still thought the man far from impressive form, but it was clear he fought with a greater purpose, a drive that would not be diminished even with Doctore’s whip at his back. Agron would attempt to have words with him during the meal, before the performance this evening for a Roman brat.

“Spartacus,” Agron called after him as he left Duro to his dreams.

The man turned with a slight pause as if wondering why any would dare stop him. “Your brother fought well, if it is approval you seek.”

“Gratitude,” Agron said. “Your approval means much for his success.”

Spartacus’ face remained grim in the low light. “Do not hold so close that you will see him killed. He must continue to stand as his own man. Dominus would not hesitate to pitch you both against each other for the sake of coin. Do not let your care be a weakness.”

“We make each other stronger,” Agron argued. 

The smile on Spartacus’ face was not a welcome one. “A gladiator much more experienced than the both of you only came to this house after being forced to kill his own father. Think of that, before you see this day as a true victory.” One small nod and then he disappeared into the twisting halls of the ludus grounds. 

Agron wanted to yell after him, offer every insult in each tongue he knew, but it would matter little here where his words were worth less than shit. 

*********************

Agron was covered in blood, surrounded by death, with the very stench of it suffocating. 

“Drink,” Crixus urged, pushing a cup of wine into his hand. “Drink for his memory.”

Duro lay in the carnage on the sands of the ludus below. He’d given his life so Agron could live. It made little sense. He was the elder; he did not go before the younger. He looked to his hands, red growing brown as it dried. Duro’s blood was there, under the layers, covered in all who stood in his path, who represented the fucks that brought them here. If they’d just stayed home, Duro would still be alive. He would be learning how to craft swords. He would be starting to look for a wife. 

He would not be a dead man forgotten in the wake of rebellion. He would not be an anonymous body with no grave. There were roars around him, voices yelling, and he shook his head to take in the scene before him. The water and marble was red, red everywhere, as Spartacus and Batiatus faced each other. 

_A man should know when he is defeated_. Agron remembered those words spoken in this fucking house, and yet, Batiatus still tried to defend himself. He barely registered the action before him, could spare no thought to critique or admire the skill of the blade in Spartacus’ hand. All he could hear, over and over again, were the words spoken as a rallying battle cry.

_I have done this thing because it is just_. 

Words enough to break the numb pull over Agron’s bones. He raised his sword and yelled along with the others; crying out for pain, for justice, for vengeance, for Duro, for all his brothers brought low. 

*********************

They were like vermin now, living in the sewers, scurrying up to the streets in the shadows, seeking food and sunlight. They’d been down here for weeks and Agron grew more furious with each day of inaction. A few raids here and there out past the city walls did little for the rage inside him. He’d found a friend in Donar, a gladiator that had been healing from injuries during the bulk of Agron and Duro’s months in the ludus. There had never been the need to make bonds with others when he still had his brother. It was a comfort, when Agron deemed himself worthy of it, to speak the tongue of his parents with Donar, even if Donar spoke the tongue slower now, skill gone soft with lack of use. 

It was Donar who kept Agron from turning into the demon he felt burrowing under his skin each new dawn. It had felt good to smash the mercenary’s face into pieces yesterday, to feel something other than the tenuous control over his grief snap. It felt good to give in, even if their fearless leader did not approve. 

Agron still could not believe such trust was placed in Crixus and his fucking Gauls. Those men hardly ever came to Spartacus’ aid, and yet the man still offered favor to their numbers. Agron would rather see them all with slit throats in the night. Fuck honor, men who denied food to those who helped see their freedom did not deserve a fair fight. Agron did not sacrifice his own blood to be ground under a different set of the same boots. 

“It never leaves,” Spartacus’ voice said from above.

Agron looked up from his spot of contemplating the murky, dank water before him. “Of what do you speak?”

“How you feel in this moment,” Spartacus said. “It never leaves you. They say time heals all wounds, but those are empty words given by people attempting to give themselves comfort. The guilt will always be with you, the questioning of if things went differently, and the pain of a loss that can never be healed. The rage, of course.” He laughed. “Look what I’ve done in the name of my own grief. They took my freedom, my name, my wife, and the one I could call friend in those walls. Now we shake our fist at Rome.”

“You will seek Glaber no matter the cost,” Agron guessed. He doubted even Mira’s urgent words would keep Spartacus from his task.

Spartacus nodded at his words, a tiny ghost of a smile on his lips. “I tell myself that once he is dead it will be enough. We will take the path to the mountains and leave this place for a new life, but those words feel like little more than lies.” He gave Agron a long, steady look. “For what little it is worth, I am sorry to see your brother gone. If nothing else, he could’ve shouted the Romans to their knees.”

Something odd bubbled in Agron’s chest then, escaping through his mouth almost like a laugh. It sounded wrong, even as it echoed off the walls. 

Spartacus said nothing when the sounds turned to sobs, just kept vigil over Agron’s grief. 

**********************

“We should have never fucking left them,” Agron growled as they ran through the forest. He’d left the house slave, Chadara, and Lydon in charge of the rest. They would follow at a slower pace as Agron, Donar, and their men ran through the woods in search of Spartacus. They’d already found bodies of Roman and Rebel alike. 

Agron tried not to think of Nasir, the young slave with the defiant glare so reminiscent of Duro, and what could’ve happened out here. If men like Fortis and Liscus could be brought down, seasoned gladiators of the arena, he held little hope for a body slave with still forming calluses from the sword. 

The woods had never been a thing he feared. Like all of his people, they were sacred places, their own temples for their gods. Now he cursed the fog that surrounded them, the dimming light making their task harder. 

“All the fucking years I tracked for hunts and now I can’t find shit,” Donar grumbled at his side. 

They both turned their heads as they heard a group of shouts. Agron went full-tilt down hills and mounds until he stopped short. Spartacus and Mira stood back to back, ready to defend the two people curled up at the bottom of a tree. Naevia, still alive, stood there with eyes wide and wild, while Nasir lay slumped and pale, old blood staining his clothes. 

Agron could not recall the last time he smiled in such relief. He ran to Spartacus first, grasping his arm, exchanging a smile. No words would need speaking now; they’d come to understanding like all brothers. 

*********************

The temple ground was a comical sight of bodies too full of wine to be of any use than laughter. Agron lounged on the steps, watching Nasir and Lugo talk animatedly with each other, neither looking eager to come to blows.

“The Bringer of Rain brings peace,” he teased. 

Spartacus shook his head at Agron’s words, kicking sand over his boots. “Shall I call Doctore out here to teach you another lesson?”

Agron grimaced and pressed a hand to the bruises low on his back. “Lesson is still very much felt.” He studied Spartacus at his side, wondering at the quiet about him. He was always a man of his own mind, one that he never let waver. He was driven by purpose like any great leader. Agron’s father would’ve sung his praises until the snow melted. “Donar claims you were a deserter of Rome,” he said. “I did not realize you fought with them.”

“Often to defeat a common enemy, other enemies must become bedfellows” Spartacus said. His lips quirked and he allowed himself a small laugh. “How times changed for us all. The Romans turned path, and from purpose, going back on held promise to my people. I suppose it could be said I turned from their cause, but they turned from mine first. Glaber never was a man with true honor.” He eyes flickered to the mountains in the horizon. “My village was laid waste; women, children, and the old slaughtered because of Rome’s change in their strategic plan. I left my post once I realized they’d gone back on our treaty. It was by chance I found Sura when I did.”

“Only to have her ripped from your arms,” Agron said.

Spartacus nodded. “Though I would never see that night taken from me. It was the last time my name ever passed her lips; a cherished memory until I hold her again.” He looked at the mug in his hands before meeting Agron’s eyes. “Rome forgets that they taught me their very tactics. I consider it my duty to remind them.”

Agron grinned at the promise in that tone. He was not fool enough to think they would survive this war. Rome would always hold advantage with more resources and bodies, but they could give the best fight until the very end. It was something that appealed to Agron, forever the lesser appreciated of the clan’s sons, with a mother not from the lands east of the Rhine, but far south beyond the river’s boundaries. He enjoyed being the nuisance that brought great men to their knees. 

“I will gladly stand by your side to see it done,” Agron vowed.

“There is no other I would wish there,” Spartacus swore.

******************

_Brother_ — a simple world, a label, a name, a title, that held so much more meaning than the mark on Agron’s arm. It was an old wound now, in his flesh, but still new in his soul, as he heard Duro’s voice complain of the throbbing pain of the mark. Duro never kept silent for the inconvenient pains; he failed to utter a sound when truly injured, but the annoyances were always met with vocal descriptions that would’ve made lesser men blush. Duro was always the better with words, with making friends, and with seeking ties outside that of blood. 

Spartacus was not just a man. He’d become a living ideal of a greater purpose. Even Nasir, who had been trained by the man himself, watched him with eyes that spoke of admiration for the hero. Spartacus lived with a legacy as the mythical Bringer of Rain; a man who fought to the shouts of a crowd no longer contained by a simple arena.

They’d taken a city from the Romans, ripped it out of their grasp, and each day more and more came to its walls seeking sanctuary. Agron never imagined that one man’s vengeance could create such a thing. It was both a terrifying and beautiful sight to witness. 

“You have concern about supplies,” Spartacus said.

Agron shrugged. “You are the one more familiar with the Romans. How will they respond? None of the grain on hand is edible.”

Spartacus did not hesitate as he gave his grave estimation. “They will cut off any trade routes and attempt to starve us out.”

“Oh, is that all,” Agron muttered. 

Spartacus’ fierce face melted into a grin. “Do you not stand with me?”

Agron snorted. “I stand with you always, even though it shall lead me to certain death.”

*********************

Agron never favored the winter. It brought death with its chill, on the animals, on the people of his clan, on the plants that could provide sustenance with lack of meat. It drove men mad if they lingered too long in the cold. Agron never thought to see the sickness take hold in Rome, foolishly believing everywhere would be as dry and hot as Capua, but mountains were mountains no matter the place. 

Agron held a cloth to Spartacus’ face as he wiped away the blood from his confrontation with Crixus. He couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped his throat as he thought of how circumstances changed.

“You find this amusing?” Spartacus asked.

“You do not?” Agron questioned. “How many times did you have to force yourself between us before blood was shed? Now I am the one to pull you from pummeling the fucking Gaul into the ground.”

Spartacus shrugged. “It was not so very long ago Crixus and I stood more enemy than friend. We have spent more time arguing than in agreement.” 

“Brothers do not always agree,” Agron said. 

Spartacus shook his head. “I never had them as a boy.”

“Nasir tells me you had man-eating mares, so I suppose it’s an equal trade,” Agron said. He stepped back and pulled his cloak tighter around his body as wind whipped through the camp. “We have more dead than alive now.”

“I know,” Spartacus said. “I do not stand unaware or unmoved by the loss of our numbers.” He hung his head, a quick moment of weakness. “I just need more time, Agron. I do not know how to move against Crassus and keep those still in this world alive. The only thing I can think to do now is hold position.”

Spartacus looked every one of his years as he dragged a hand over his face and winced. Agron gripped his shoulder, offering what support he could. 

“Rest a moment. I will send word that everyone is required to come into the camp. We will pull them to your tent, the healer’s tent, and Nasir has already opened ours to those without good protection. We will try to save those we can. Winter is not a stranger to my people.”

Spartacus peered through the snow as Lugo walked by, barely covered compared to the layers on all the rest. “That I can see.”

******************

Agron had two brothers pulled from his arms by Death, both to save his own life and see his own escape. He could not live to see it occur again, not with Nasir, not with Gannicus, and not with Spartacus. Crixus was somehow easier. He still sought vengeance, where Spartacus now sought freedom, and that more familiar rage would be a welcome tide into the land of the dead. 

In following Crixus he knew he was helping to distract Rome. It would be his turn to die protecting the ones he loved. He would honor Duro’s sacrifice, and those of Donar, Mira, Lucius, and Oenomaus, and all the others who had fallen in the course of this act. Even now, defeated, beaten, and nailed to a wooden beam, he still delayed their actions in following Spartacus. He would see Nasir, Saxa, and Lugo saved. 

Agron was no fool. He knew there was no surviving this, and since he arrived in Rome, he always expected to die with his blood dripping into sand. He just did not expect for it to be so hard to breathe. 

He lost track of time. Day turned to dusk to night and then back to dawn. He felt the skin blister on his face, victim to sun, sand, and wind. They still forced water past his lips, not eager to let him die in peace, or quickly. 

“Where’s your Bringer of Rain now?” one of the Romans below him taunted.

Agron tilted his head into the harsh sun. It hurt, but pain meant he still lived. 

 

*******************

“You are not the face I expected to greet me in my death,” Agron croaked. He was bundled into Spartacus’ side as the men carrying him transferred him as if so light a burden.

“Do not waste your strength on words,” Spartacus said. His hands were soft, gentle in a way he did not know such a man capable of. “There are many who shall greet you when we get further into the camp.”

“How?” he asked. Words felt strange in his mouth, as if his tongue had grown too large. 

“Naevia lived. She found us, told us what she could.” Spartacus brought him closer. “We made a negotiation.” 

Agron tried to nod, but his whole body felt as if it would give out. He allowed himself to lean into Spartacus’ strength, to take what was so freely given out of love. He felt his eyes close as even that was too much to stand, but the pain meant he still lived in this world. 

They came to a stop suddenly, though there was no tension in Spartacus. Gentle hands took his face then, smaller, familiar, a touch he thought never to feel again. Agron forced his eyes open to look in Nasir’s own.

There was no reproach there, only worry, only love. Spartacus placed Agron’s arm around Nasir and stood back. Agron would thank him later for this, for everything, but now Nasir stood before him, face open and lips trembling.

“The Gods return you to my arms,” he said.

“I was fool to ever leave them,” Agron confessed. 

Nasir did not disagree, just slotted himself under Agron’s arm, taking his weight. They spared at look to Spartacus who gave them a grim nod of approval.

*******************

Agron had only known fighting over the past three years of his life. Ever since he was a boy he had trained with shield, sword, and axe. Now pain shot through his arms if he attempted to carry something heavier than a coin purse. He felt betrayed by his very body; useless in a force ready to make one last fight against Rome, knowing death would be all there was to follow.

Spartacus had charged him with leading those who could not, or would not, fight into the mountains, through the winding paths, to freedom in the lands he once called home. He was placated with tales of how he was the best to lead the others to freedom, how Spartacus trusted him with this great task and legacy, but Agron could not idly sit by while all his brothers and sisters fought to their ends. 

“We will find a way,” Nasir had promised, pressing careful kisses into Agron’s hair. “Lugo and I, we’ve had discussions. We will find a way.”

He knew he should never doubt Nasir’s words, but it was hard not to feel the stab of jealousy when Spartacus turned to Lugo for strategy aid. 

Agron asked for time alone as he tried to keep his temper in check, unleashing it on a puddle since his feet were still capable of stomping. Mira would’ve laughed at him, called him an angry little boy, while Oenomaus would’ve chastised him for bellowing like a goat. Donar would’ve shouted encouragement while Crixus would’ve muttered insults under his breath. He felt the ghosts all around him now. 

“You are my last gift to them,” Spartacus said from behind him. “The very last and very best thing I can give to them now that they are free.”

“It does not feel such,” Agron said as he turned to meet his eyes.

“The burden of leadership rarely does,” Spartacus admitted. “Do you still stand with me?”

“Always,” Agron forced out through a sudden hard lump in his throat. 

Spartacus came closer then, cautious as if approaching a wounded deer. He gripped Agron’s shoulders, half desperation, and half support. “Then grant me this one last mission, from brother to brother.”

*******************

The taste of blood, sweat, and sand lingered on his lips as they began the journey into the mountains. North was the only way they knew now, be it Gaul or Germania, they kept forward with their backs to Rome. The company wasn’t full of warriors, only a handful still stood with them. This group was nothing but women, children, the old, and the house slaves who would never be warriors, but _would_ be free. 

Agron turned his head again, to look back one last time, even as his hand was pulled forward by Nasir. He had lost so much to this land. His blood brother lay at the bottom of the cliffs, washed off to sea or in the belly of a beast. Donar had been left in the mountains, probably torn apart by hungry wolves. Crixus had become part of the air, the ash and dust, and part of the sand so sacred. Lugo, Castus, Saxa, Naevia, Rhaskos, Mira, Oenomaus, Chadara, Sanus, Lydon, and Gannicus, all stood now as nothing but the names of their dead. They had buried Spartacus as deep as they could, removed to a higher part of the mountain pass. It had been Laeta’s idea to leave the memorial of rock and shield, to throw the Romans off from ever truly finding the body. They could dig under that earth, but he would not be found.

He could still taste the sweat of Spartacus’ brow on his tongue. “Farewell my brother,” he whispered. 

Their numbers grew as they passed through the mountains and country side. Some had died off, due to the toll and the weather, but others had found their company and stayed. They hadn’t seen a hint of Rome for a fortnight, and Agron knew they had passed into the lands nestled close to Germania. He knew from the bite in the air and the symbols and charms left near some of the trees. He knew even more now as they stood at the river bank. He could never forget the smell of its water. He drank from it, bathed in it, and washed blood from his hands in the streams that came from this river wide. Agron never thought of seeing it again, outside of dreams and memory.

He took a harsh, gulping breath as he felt safe for the first time in this new life. 

“Agron?” Nasir questioned. He knelt down beside him. “Is it home?”

“It is,” Agron said. “We are here.”

********************

“And so I live to tell of Spartacus and all his rebels, making him legacy so he is always remembered,” Agron said. He patted Aella’s head. “Will you help carry on this legacy?”

“I swear by all my gods, and those he worshiped,” Aella vowed. 

Spartacus was right. The grief never went away, nor could it be buried, but joy was found again in others. It was impossible to replace those missing, yet it helped more each time he passed their history on. 

Aella turned her head to the door as it creaked open. Nasir came inside, dusting the snow off his cloak as he hung it up. “Aella, your mother calls for you. She’s searched half the village to find you, yet something told me you would be here. Go along before the night completely falls.”

She pressed a kiss to Agron’s cheek, spared a hug for Nasir, and then proceeded to rush from their house, slamming the door behind her.

“Youths,” Nasir said with a bowed head. 

“They keep us alert,” Agron said. He welcomed Nasir back home with a lingering kiss. “You taste of jerky.”

“And you smell of cow,” Nasir teased. He pressed his fingers to the lines in Agron’s brow. “Telling stories again I see.”

“Only truths,” Agron promised. “Only memories.” 

They owed this, their old age, their freedom, their lives together to Spartacus. Agron would never forget, nor would Nasir. They remained thankful each day, even on the hard ones. They would never forget the family they found and forged during dark times, when the best and worst of all of them were revealed.


End file.
